


Take Me Out (Of Myself)

by Erushi



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), SPECTRE (2015)
Genre: M/M, Post-SPECTRE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 16:33:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5212910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erushi/pseuds/Erushi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He imagines every now and then that this, perhaps,</i> this <i>is what he likes best about Gareth Mallory. They are both weapons in their own individual ways, questions of life and death reduced to a single alphabet, and Q has always had thing for ruthlessly competent bastards anyway.</i></p><p>Or: A story about crushes, semi-drunken confessions, and gunfire somewhere along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take Me Out (Of Myself)

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Spectre spoilers.
> 
> I watched Spectre with the expectation that I'd be fangirling over all the 00Q moments. Unexpectedly, however, I emerged shipping Mallory's M and Q. I blame the final showdown scene between M and C, Q seated just behind M and hacking away, and M casually compliments Q while he coolly faces down his rival. 
> 
> This tale flows from that scene. 
> 
> Title taken from Jamie Cullum's song of the same name.

M praises him while they confront C in the gleaming monstrosity that is to be the new Joint Intelligence Service headquarters, and his hands do not falter. Instead, his fingers fly even faster over the keyboard, rejected passwords and jumbled codes until finally, finally, the Nine Eyes programme is halted with mere seconds to spare. He already knows that he is very good at what he does, thank you very much: youngest Quartermaster since the World War II, and he’ll be damned if he proves his detractors right by cocking it up just now like a blushing virgin unused to compliments.

Later, though, much later, after M bundles Oberhauser into a police van and Tanner shepherds the rest of them back towards his car, Q feels the heat rush into his cheeks. He sinks into the leather backseat of the car, leans into the companionable arm that Moneypenny loops around his shoulders, and spends the journey to his flat silently grateful for the fact the terrible blush, which he knows he’s sporting, is barely visible in the London night-time. Because, realising that you have a crush on your boss? That’s like every worst workplace cliché ever, and bloody not on at all.

=-=-=

Predictably, the fallout from C’s death and Oberhauser’s arrest stretches for weeks. Nine weeks, to be precise, with police investigations and back-to-back Government inquiries and what have you. The media has a field day, with everyone from the Daily Telegraph to the Guardian to even the bloody Daily Mail having a say about the furore. The Sun runs a piece alleging that C and M are actually the same person, and how the whole affair is actually a conspiracy by the Liberal opposition to swing the next vote against the Tories. It’s all very convoluted and ridiculous, and Q almost forgets to collect his lunchtime takeaway of a ham and cheese toastie from the counter when the number on his receipt is called, too preoccupied as he was with sniggering while he sneaks a read over the shoulder of a fellow patron at Pret à Manger.

(The Metro that day, at least, is somewhat more sensible: an opinion piece on when cyber surveillance becomes too much surveillance but with none of the usual hyperbolic hysteria. Q had circled it on his copy of the broadsheet with a red marker on his morning commute, before leaving the paper behind on the Tube, folded at that particular page.)

In the nine weeks that it takes for the dust to settle, Q does not see M at all. He receives plenty of calls from the man instead, terse queries and pithy instructions barked down secured lines, and in a way, he is almost pathetically grateful for the respite, if respite’s even the right word for it. There’s already more than plenty for Q Branch to do, what with MI6’s reinstatement and all, and the last thing he needs is a distraction in the form of Feelings. (Yes, capitalised.) He throws himself into firearms and explosives, wraps himself around intricate gadgets and showy devices, and between an improved jetpack prototype and the chemical equation of a synthetic poison based on mamba venom, manages to convince himself that it was perhaps just the adrenaline that night, after all.

Then, after sixty-three days which Q is absolutely not counting, M strides into Q’s lair beneath the Thames.

Q doesn’t realise this until M is almost standing over him, Tanner just a step behind at M’s elbow. He scrambles hastily to his feet. His chair skitters backwards, crashing to the floor. There’s an awkward pause.

“M,” he offers into the silence, and only just manages to keep himself from pushing his glasses up his nose nervously.  

“Q,” says M crisply. He cocks his head, and Tanner steps forward, holding out a manila folder. It’s clear that Q is supposed to accept folder, so he does.

 “What’s this?” he asks as he flips it open. The first page is an address, London, Zone 1, a building close to the Whitehall.

“New, more permanent digs,” replies Tanner.

“Something we thought you might have an interest in,” says M at the same time. 

“I take it we’re no longer moving into that, that _place_ ,” Q ventures at last.

M’s lips quirk. “No, we’re not. The Government has decided that it may be, well, bad publicity for us to do so, given recent associations.” He tucked his hands into pockets. “Tanner has suggested, and I agree with him, that it would be more convenient to have Q Branch back with us in our new offices, wherever that will be.”

“Q Branch will still keep its premises here,” Tanner adds just as Q opens his mouth. “I mean, I believe we all can see the practical benefit of Q Branch having places off-site. All we’re saying is that, now that C is gone, there is no reason why the main office of Q Branch can’t be situated with the rest of HQ again. And if Q Branch does move back in with us, we thought you might want to have a say in how your part of the building will be done up. You’re holding the plans.”

“Oh,” says Q, because he can already think of a few good reasons why Q Branch moving back in with MI6 HQ is a bad idea, not least because M is a handsome bastard in a grey pinstripe three-piece, and Q very definitely has a bloody crush on his boss. _Oh God._

“Sure,” his traitorous mouth blurts.

M smiles, and Q privately quails. “Lovely,” he says. “Let Tanner know what you need – he’ll fix you up.”

“Lovely,” Q echoes weakly.

“Oh, one more thing,” M says, “Dinner tomorrow evening, half-seven, at the Chiltern Firehouse. I believe I owe the three of you a thank-you meal after all that faff with Oberhauser.”

M _winks_ as he leaves, sweeps into the lift that will take him aboveground once more, Tanner his heels. It’s a while before Q remembers to breathe. It takes even longer before he realises that he’s clutching the folder to his chest.

=-=-=

See, here’s the thing: Q loves being the Quartermaster. He likes the space that he has carved for himself, where he is more than just a shy bloke with a mortgage and two cats, more than an infamous hacker on the run. There’s a reason why the previous M had hired Q so young, after all; why Q’s real name is legally dead, why he is now only just Q. With MI6, he may not often venture out in the field, and even more rarely to the frontlines, but he’s pretty certain that his body-count could match that of any of the 00s. A gun needs to be directed before the hand can pull the trigger, and while M may be the one who does the directing, it’s Q who places the gun in the hand.

Q loves his job. He knows he’s fucking brilliant at it, knows that everyone knows it too.

He also knows that his fucking M might well result in him fucking up all of the rest of it as well.

That’s even assuming M _likes_ him back, which at this point is still an unknown variable, an unsolvable equation, an incomprehensible bit of code, and could he even sound more like a besotted schoolgirl at this point, _Christ_.

Q ponders his unfortunate crush even as he stops by his neighbourhood Sainsbury’s and picks up a ready-made lasagne from the reduced section. He dwells on the merits of refusing to move Q Branch back in with HQ (thinking about shagging M in M’s office in the same building might prove distracting), weighs them against the merits of agreeing to the move (repression is nothing new, if Freud is to be believed, and Tanner had been right about the convenience, not to mention the better heating which a proper building would have, unlike a bunch of old tunnels beneath the Thames) as he slips the lasagne into the oven, feeds his cat while he waits for the lasagne to heat. He’s still no closer to a solution when he burns the roof of his mouth on melted mozzarella cheese and béchamel sauce, and he’s honestly considering whether he should decline M’s offer of dinner the next day, because he rather suspects that further exposure to the very source of his dilemma might drive him more than half-mad.  

If he wanks in the shower that night to the thought of piercing blue eyes and calloused fingers wrapped around his cock, it’s certainly no one’s business but his own.

=-=-=

In the end, he does go for the dinner at Chiltern Firehouse, if only because Moneypenny makes him.

“You’re brooding,” she announces, after dropping by that afternoon and observing him for almost forty-five minutes while he worked. “I can tell you’re brooding. If you’re not going to tell me – and I can tell that you aren’t going to, so don’t you even start – then you’re coming to dinner with us.” She lifts his coat and scarf from their respective hooks on the wall, tosses them both into his lap.

“Are you always this bossy,” he complains, but puts his coat and scarf on all the same. He had learnt very early on that a wise man never refuses Eve Moneypenny, not if she is bent on getting her way, certainly not if he knew what was good for him.

“Only when the other party is being a moody little git,” she answers cheerfully as she loops her arm with his. “Come along now, I want to eat at least half a dozen of their crab things.”

The crab things turn out to be crab doughnuts, and bloody delicious too, savoury profiteroles stuffed with white crab meat. Q eats a plate with three of them all by himself even before the rest of the starters arrive, and doesn’t protest when M orders him another serving with an indulgent smile.

He also drinks far too much.

Q feels the palpable weight of M’s gaze on his skin, smooth as a silken caress each time M turns to look at him directly, hot as an iron brand when their eyes meet. To counter this, Q takes to gulping his wine, drains it almost every time M finally looks away and he’s finally free of that knowing regard, and oh, he’ll be drunk by the end of this, properly pissed, and this is most certainly a bad idea, getting sloshed when your boss is around. But M is speaking again, recounting some hilarious, throwaway encounter earlier that day in Whitehall. His voice rolls smooth as honey down Q’s spine, and Q shudders imperceptibly. Q laughs too hard and too loud when the tale winds to a close, finishes his latest glass of Pinot and acquiesces wordlessly to the waiter filling his wine glass once more.

He’s giddy and lightheaded as he stumbles out of the restaurant. Punch drunk, his mind supplies, just as he manages to trip over his own feet. His arms flail wildly in the air, and there’s brief moment that Q resigns himself to falling on his face, now won’t that be embarrassingly funny _ha ha ha_ , before a pair of hands catch him by the shoulders, steadying him. Q lets himself fall backwards against his saviour’s chest, warm even through the wool of his coat. He’s only dimly aware of the strong arms that come up to wrap around his waist, supporting his weight. He tips his head back, eyes falling shut as he noses happily at the first bit of skin he finds, its scent a delicious, heady blend of wood and spice.

“I’ll take him home,” M’s voice rumbles somewhere overhead, and Q stiffens. His eyes snap open just in time to catch Tanner and Moneypenny walking way, and he watches blearily as they head in direction of Baker Street.

 _Don’t go_ , he wants to call out, but his tongue is a heavy, clumsy thing in his mouth.

M begins to manoeuvre him George Street, presumably because that’s where M has parked his car. Q slaps his hands away irritably.

“I can stand,” he protests, and manages to take a few unsteady steps of his own.

“You’re pickled,” M points out mildly. He has an eyebrow raised, and Q suspects it’s supposed to be condescending, but really, it only makes the man look more attractive. He decides that it’s all M’s fault for being so bloody attractive all the time, even when he’s being a condescending wanker, and he decides to tell M as much, too.

“’s all your fault,” he announces – slurs, really – to the street.

“Is it?” M sounds amused as he cups a hand on Q’s elbow, steering him gently towards the gleaming black Bentley parked beneath a streetlight.

“Yes.” With great effort, Q wrenches his arm away. He nearly loses his balance, and solves the problem by grabbing the lapels of M’s coat. They careen towards the streetlight, M’s back colliding into its post and Q collapsing onto his chest. Q stares up, unblinking, at M’s face. This close, M’s eyes are very, very blue.

“I like it when your shirt’s blue,” Q tells him seriously. “You should stick with blue. Brings out your eyes.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” M says. He sounds amused, but his voice is also unexpectedly kind. “Where do you live?”

“You know that already,” Q feels obliged to point out. “You’ve read my file. You’ve read all our files.”

“I have,” M acknowledges. He begins to prise Q’s fingers from his coat. “I suppose I shall take you home now.”

Q hears himself make a wordless noise of protest. He surges forward, pressing his mouth against M’s. M’s lips are warm against his, dry and ever so slightly chapped. He tastes of the apple panna cotta they had for their dessert, of the crisp Riesling their table had shared thereafter; for a wild moment, Q imagines that this is how giving in must taste like, too.

Gradually, Q realises that he’s being pushed away gently. “Come along, Q,” says M as he herds Q back towards the car. Q lets himself be strapped into the passenger seat. He leans his temple against the cool glass of the window beside him, and falls asleep like that.

=-=-=

When Q wakes, he discovers that he is still in M’s car, and that M’s car idling on the street below Q’s block of flats.

M is next to him in the driver’s seat. He looks away from his window when Q stirs, turns towards Q, his eyes unreadable.

Q feels himself blushing. “I made a right arse of myself just now, didn’t I?”

A corner of M’s mouth lifts. “You wouldn’t be the first in history to say that after a bit too much drink.”

It startles a rueful laugh out of him. A quick glance at the clock on the dashboard tells him that he’s been out for three hours at least. He feels less wine-addled now, the alcohol finally leaving his veins, he suspects, but there’s enough left for him to feel reckless still, fearless. Impulsively, he says, “Come up with me.”

“I really shouldn’t.”

“Please.” He rests his right hand lightly on M’s forearm, and is gratified when M does not immediately move away. “Let me make you some tea before your drive home. As an apology.”

There’s a long pause. Then, “Very well.”

The trip up to Q’s flat is made in silence. Wordlessly, Q makes for his kitchen, where he busies himself with filling the kettle. M prowls about his living room, only joining Q in the kitchen after Q has put the kettle on. He pauses at the food and water bowls.

“You have cats?”

“Two of them,” Q answers. “I expect they’re out somewhere, terrorising the local rat population.” He opens the cupboard where he keeps his mugs, and there’s a rustle of cloth behind him as M reaches over his shoulder and draws out two, places the mugs on Q’s dining table. Q bites back a smile as he pulls out his cutlery drawer and fishes out a pair of teaspoons. “Sit down. The water will be boiling soon, I expect. Is Assam alright, or would prefer a Darjeeling? Or an Earl Grey?”

“Assam’s fine.”

M, Q learns, takes his tea black.

Q’s drinks half of his own tea (generous with the milk, no sugar) before he sets his mug down and takes a deep breath. “I don’t regret making an arse of myself, you know.” His fingers curl nervously into the hem of his jumper.

Across the table, M sighs. “You should. Q,” he says as he finally looks up from his tea. His expression is bland, inscrutable. “I’m the head of MI6. You work for me. It won’t be proper.”

Q snorts. “It won’t be proper if I were a field agent and our shagging interferes with your ability to put me dangerous assignments. As it is, I work in a bloody lab. I don’t think your judgment call in such matters will be affected.” He’s dimly aware that his voice has risen. He forces himself to take another sip of his tea, and waits.

For a while, neither of them speaks. Then, abruptly, M barks a laugh.

“You’ve thought this all through before, haven’t you?” He grins, and it’s warm, wry, almost self-deprecatory.

Q feels a matching grin stretch across his face. “Not really. But I’ve just thought it through now, and I know what I want.”

He locks his eyes with M’s as he stands, and holds M’s gaze even as he walks around the table. He plucks the mug from M’s fingers, deliberately setting it on the table, before straddling his thighs across M’s lap. His fingers reach to pull the tie away from M’s throat just as M cradles the back of his skull with a hand and drags him down for a hard, hungry kiss.

They manage to make it to Q’s bedroom, but only just.

Afterwards, when M emerges from his shower, and Q himself is still stretched languidly across his sheets, he asks, “Will you be staying the night?”

“I can’t,” M replies. “Early meeting tomorrow.” He sounds faintly apologetic, and Q forces himself to ignore the unexpected twinge of disappointment in his gut.

“Hmmm. Goodnight, M.” He curls up on his side, buries his head deeper into his pillow, and very carefully does not look listen to the rustle of fabric while M dresses.

Then, there’s a soft laugh, and the mattress behind him dips. A calloused palm ghosts down the length of his spine. “I think, after all that, you had better call me Gareth. Just between the both of us.”

“I prefer Mallory,” he argues sleepily. “Has a better ring to it.” Already, he can feel his eyes drifting shut.

More laughter, this time even softer, and a kiss pressed onto the bare skin between his shoulder blades. “I’ll see you tomorrow at work, Q.”

Q falls asleep smiling.

=-=-=

They carry on like this for four months.

Most days, M is just M. Unflappable, dangerous, and so blindingly intelligent and perceptive and witty and unexpectedly funny that it makes Q’s breath catch sometimes just thinking about it. He imagines every now and then that this, perhaps, _this_ is what he likes best about Gareth Mallory. They are both weapons in their own individual ways, questions of life and death reduced to a single alphabet, and Q has always had thing for ruthlessly competent bastards anyway.

Q brings M his reports on which of the latest Q Branch prototypes have the potential for greater success, his ideas for renovating the new headquarters building, his updates on the latest escapades of MI6’s various 00s out on the field. M nods his thanks politely (except when 007 goes off the grid _again_ , and really, Q can’t hold that against him), receives whatever papers Q hands him with nary a blink, _Will that be all, Quartermaster_ , and really, it’s almost as though the man hadn’t just made Q beg for it mere hours ago before fucking Q through his second bone-shattering orgasm for the night.

They fuck exactly once in M’s office. Q finds himself spread on the dark, antique wood of M’s writing desk, his shirt unbuttoned, his hands tied above his head with his tie, his spine a trembling curve. M fucks into him, deep and hard, and Q’s lips are red and bitten from their kisses, from not screaming each time M nails his prostrate, which is every time. He moans his relief when M’s hand finally fumbles between their bodies to wrap around his cock, and he comes to a whispered _Good boy_ breathed hot against the shell of his ear.

=-=-=

Some evenings, however, Gareth Mallory comes by Q’s flat, and it’s these evenings that Q loves, alright, just fucking loves. Mallory takes him out for dinner, except for when they ring for delivery in favour of curling up in front of Q’s telly, legs tangled together and cats on their laps. They bandy stories from work, trade remarks about a recent physics discover or a new play on West End, punctuate their sentences with light touches, each more flirtatious and daring than the last, before finally, finally, their night inevitably progresses to Q’s bedroom.

Mallory never stays the night. Q fights the wave of disappointment each time, tells himself that he doesn’t mind. Gareth strokes down Q’s back before he goes, drops a kiss on the bony jut of Q’s bare shoulder and ruffles Q’s hair goodnight. It shouldn’t make everything better, but it does.

In the mornings after, Q wakes to new bites and bruises. He studies them in the mirror after his shower, presses his fingertips into the mottled red and purple marks that linger on his skin. Then, he dresses carefully, leaves for work. If his hands drift frequently that morning to his hips, which now sport finger-shaped bruises, or if he keeps his scarf on all day because his shirt collar is nowhere high enough, they’re not things which anyone else needs to know.

=-=-=

Moneypenny corners him in the third month. She drops by his lab unannounced just before lunch, drags him to a nearby Wasabi where they emerge shortly thereafter, victorious, with their takeaway in white and green cardboard boxes. She waits until he is halfway through before she asks him about it, and he chokes on his chicken katsu curry.

“You’re mistaken,” he tells her when he finally stops coughing, although he’s pretty sure that the blush he’s currently sporting gives that away as a lie.

Moneypenny waves her chopsticks at him dismissively. “Please. I’m his secretary. It’s my job to know everything.”

“That is actually quite terrifying,” he says. Babbles, really, because that’s usually his default when he’s caught unawares in terrifyingly awkward social situations. “Please don’t ever become a supervillain. Not that you won’t excel at it – I have no doubt you will, actually – but it feels like we already have more than enough of those.”

She arches an eyebrow at him. “So much for my childhood dreams of world domination,” she says, deadpan. There’s a rather awkward pause as she studies him and he studies everything but her. Then, her expression softens. “Just, be careful, alright? Mallory’s a great guy, but he’s also M. Head of Secret Intelligence Service, Queen and country, far too much on his plate – heard of him?”

“I’m not sure what it is that you’re trying to say,” Q admits.

“I’m saying that he’s the sort of man who’ll forget birthdays, and likely more besides.” She loops a gentle arm around his shoulders. “You need to decide if you’ll be alright with that.”

=-=-=

And that would have been all of it, except –

Mallory shows up at his flat one week later with the ingredients for a _coq au vin_. He bars Q from his own kitchen, and proceeds to cook a meal so delicious that Q is this close to proposing that they have sex on the dining table after, except –

Mallory slides him a box. It’s not a particularly remarkable box, as boxes go: thick cardboard, matte black finish, flat, crisp corners, approximately the size of Q’s hand. The only thing remarkable is the cream ribbon that’s tied smartly around it. Q stares, utterly perplexed.

“What,” he begins, and Mallory makes an impatient gesture for him to open it. Inside, he finds a tie, a dark navy, patterned with tiny, grey, embroidered knots. Silk, by the feel of it, and just weighty enough that he knows it has to be expensive, the spill of fabric cool and smooth against his palm when he picks it up.

“Is this a bribe?” he asks when he looks up. “Are you bribing me? Because there’s really no need to; you’re the head of MI6, for crying out loud. Q Branch is already yours to command. Unless you’re commanding us to release the new jetpack to 007, in which case, the answer’s no. The design still needs work, and anyway, the amount of paperwork each time 007 loses a prototype, _urgh_.”

A smile tugs at Mallory’s lips. “No, Q, I’m not trying to bribe you.”

“Oh. Good.” Q eyes the tie contemplatively, then lifts his gaze to the leftovers in the pot on his kitchen counter, to the dinner’s dishes now soaking in his sink. “You haven’t killed one of my cats, have you? Or done something that needs apologising for, only you’re too afraid to tell me? Not that I actually think you’ve killed my cats, but you cook me _dinner_ , and you give me a _present_ , and there’s only so much before a sensible man starts to get suspicious – ”

“Q,” Mallory says, as he comes around the table to stand in front of Q, “shut up.” He takes the tie from Q’s hand and loops it gently around Q’s neck, knots it carefully. His fingers brush the hollow of Q’s throat. “Maybe I just thought I’d get you a little something to wear at the launch of the new headquarters next week,” he murmurs, the lines at the corners of his eyes crinkling.  

“Yeah?” Q’s hands fumble at Mallory’s suspenders as he tugs the man towards him.

“Or maybe I wanted to wish you happy birthday,” Mallory smirks against Q’s lips. “I have read your file, as you say.”

It turns out that they do end up fucking on Q’s dining table. Neither of them gets much sleep that night, but Q doesn’t mind at all.

=-=-=

They’ve carried on like this for four months when Spectre agents attempt to break Oberhauser out. It’s something MI6 anticipates; Q spends a tense hour and a half directing 007 over comms as they corral Oberhauser’s would-be liberators into a disused Underground tunnel.

What they do not anticipate is a second attempt the same evening as the unsuccessful first, nor for it to be a hostage and exchange job. They certainly do not anticipate Q to be the one taken as the hostage.

Q surmises as much as he struggles against the thick-set arm braced across his chest. There’s a distinctively familiar ring adorning the hand of his captor, and a cold wave of fear washes over him.  From the corner of his eye, he glimpses the bag of groceries he’s dropped, oranges rolling on the pavement, white spill of milk seeping into the rough cobblestone. A handkerchief claps over his nose, his mouth, and he realises, too late, the sweet, pungent smell of chloroform. Something pricks his neck, and his vision goes dark.

=-=-=

He comes to with a start.

It’s a while before he remembers, and when he does, he fights to breathe through the surge of panic, in, out, in, out. Gradually, his eyes focus.  A tiny room, windowless and stuffy, bare except for the naked bulb in the ceiling, the chair he’s tied to, a camera mounted in the corner, and fuck, that reduces his chances of trying anything too obvious, he supposes. Not if they’re likely to be watching him.

There’s rope around his chest, rope binding his ankles to the forelegs of the chair, but he feels the cold bite of metal around his wrists and he guesses that his arms, at least, are fastened behind his back with handcuffs. Slowly, carefully, he begins to test the strength of his bonds. The ropes prove impossible, tightening with every surreptitious wriggle he makes. His hands, on the other hand –

The fingers on his right hand stretch and strain towards his watch. Q allows his eyes to fall shut, bites his lower lip absently, concentrates. It takes him at least eleven tries before his thumb finds what it’s looking for along the rim of the watch case, and when he does, his shoulders sag with relief.

Q activates the tracker in his watch. Then, he settles in. Waits.

=-=-=

His kidnappers bring him a plate of food which he refuses to eat when they try to feed him, a glass of water which they splash at his face when he spits at them. They slap him about for his pains, leave him with stinging cheeks and a split lip.

 Q waits.

=-=-=

There’s gunfire, distant at first but growing louder, louder still, and the sound of running feet. There’s a choked-off shout. The door to the room flies open.

Q blinks. “I was rather expecting one of the 00s,” he manages to croak.

M, Mallory, Gareth, feral, beautiful, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows and a spray of blood on his cheek, grins sharp enough to cut. “I’m afraid a missing Quartermaster usually rates somewhat higher.”

=-=-=

It’s a good many hours before the nurses allow Q to leave, and he’s met by M when he does. They walk to M’s car in silence. Q spends the entire time keenly aware of the hand that rested lightly on the small of his back.

It’s not until the Bentley peels out of it its parking lot that the last vestiges of M melt away, and Mallory skilfully guides the vehicle into the heavy London traffic, one hand – two fingers, really – on the steering wheel and the other on Q’s thigh.

“Where are we going?” he asks when Mallory passes by the turn that would have taken them on the route to Q’s flat. “I hate to seem ungrateful, but two kidnappings in twenty-four hours is really a bit too much excitement for me.”

“I’m sure you’ll manage,” Mallory replies dryly, and huffs a laugh. His brow dips ever so before smoothing again almost immediately, leaving Q unsure whether there had been a slight frown.

Q waits. When it becomes clear that no further answer as to their intended destination is forthcoming, he snorts. “Lucky me,” he says, turning to look out of his window. The hand on his thigh tightens its grip ever so, and he turns back, picks it up and laces his fingers with Mallory’s.

They fall into small talk. Eventually, Mallory pulls up in a tree-lined street in front of a row of townhouses, all fairly posh. He climbs out of the Bentley first, strides over to the other side to hold Q’s door open for him while Q fumbles with the buckle of his seatbelt. “My place,” he says.

Q gives his seatbelt a final, irritable tug, before pushing the straps out of the way. “You do realise that I’m not a lady,” he remarks, but takes Mallory’s proffered hand all the same.

Mallory’s living room is done up in warm woods and leathers, with heavy drapes and handsome furniture which Q guesses could easily cost apiece his monthly paycheque or more. There are no personal photographs, or indeed any personal touches at all, except perhaps the eclectic selection of the books lined neatly on the bookshelves. Idly, Q lingers, reads the titles at random off the spines, William Shakespeare and Alfred Tennyson standing cover to cover with George Orwell and John le Carré.

“The truth will out,” Mallory remarks mildly from behind him. There’s a clink of glass, a faint _glug_ of drink being poured. “I dreamt of a career in espionage in my youth. That was why I took up with the army, figured it would be the best way to be noticed, find myself and in. And then, they retired me, gave me this job eventually.” He shrugs carelessly when Q turns around, and knocks back the tumbler of scotch in his hand before pouring himself another two fingers’ worth. “I suppose you could say that some dreams tend to come back to bite you in the arse.” His smile is sardonic. “Did you know that Le Carré’s ex-MI6?”

“Is that your second?” Q counters, nodding at the tumbler with his chin, because he’s pretty certain Mallory has not strayed from his position beside the liquor cabinet after they had come through the front door.

“My third, actually,” Mallory replies, confirming Q’s suspicions. He exhales loudly, his sigh a soft, self-deprecatory laugh. “Expedient, in the circumstances.” The corners of his lips quirk; a private joke, Q guesses, and wonders. “Would you like some scotch too? Another kind of spirit? No? Tea, perhaps?”

Wordlessly, Q follows Mallory to the kitchen, where he stands awkwardly by the kitchen counter as he watches Mallory fill the kettle. “ _Da Hong Pao_ ,” Mallory announces, spooning loose tea leaves into a tea infuser. “Literally, “big red robe”. A Chinese _oolong_ tea, reserved in the past for honoured guests. The name comes from a story about an ancient Chinese emperor who had the tea bushes dressed in red robes. A friend of mine picked this up for me in Hong Kong.” He pours the hot water into the teapot, his movements brisk. “I know you like your tea,” he says as he balances the teapot and a mug on a tray and carries the lot out of the kitchen to his over-large dining table, a grand-looking thing, where he gestures for Q to take a seat on one of the brocade-upholstered chairs.

“I do, thank you.” The amber liquid is delicious. Q cups the steaming mug between both hands, bracing his elbows on the varnished wooden surface of the table top. Across the table, Mallory’s expression is contemplative as he picks up his tumbler of scotch again with a forefinger and thumb. A silence settles over them, tangible, seemingly portentous, fraught with things unsaid and punctuated only by the soft _slosh_ of scotch swirled contemplatively against glass.

“Tanner and Moneypenny tried to talk me out of participating in your rescue,” Mallory says suddenly.

“Oh.” Q hides his confusion in a too-big gulp of tea, wincing at the burn as it slides past his throat. “Clearly, they weren’t successful.”

“No, they weren’t.” Abruptly, Mallory tips his head back and tosses the remainder of his scotch down. His gaze, when he meets Q’s eyes, is intent. “I wouldn’t let them.”

Q’s mouth goes dry. “Oh,” he repeats dumbly.

“Yes, _oh_ ,” Mallory echoes wryly. He sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose, and when he looks up again he suddenly appears older, careworn, worry mapped in the lines on his brow and at the corner of his eyes. His clothes are rumpled still from the day’s rescue mission, and there are flecks of dried blood across the front of his shirt, dark brown stains stark and macabre against cornflower blue. “What is it that you want, Q?”

Q blinks. “I’m not sure I quite understand you.”

“Nothing too difficult about it to understand. We’re both MI6, we both knew the dangers going in. But I’m also M, and there’ll be times when I can’t be there for you, when I’ll be out there risking my life or your life or heck, both our lives, and I can’t always afford to be able to do things just for us, when I’ve the whole bloody organisation to think about too. I’ll forget important things, like birthdays and anniversaries and your cats’ visits to the vet. And I’m eighteen years older than you, you could probably do much better than me.” He breaks off, raking a hand through his hair, and takes a shuddering breath. “Are you,” he says, quieter now, “are you sure you’re alright with, with this?” He gestures vaguely in the air, as though fumbling for the right words. “Is this what you want?”

It takes Q three tries to get his voice to work, and when it does, he blurts the first thing that comes to his mind. “You’ve been speaking with Eve, haven’t you?”

“Moneypenny? No, I haven’t, although I can’t say that I’m surprised that she has told you the same about me. She looks out for you. All of us do. But is that – me – just looking out for you enough?”

 “Well, I don’t think you just _look out_ for me, unless that’s supposed to be some kind of kinky metaphor, but I think I’d know it if I were involved in some MI6-wide orgy,” Q babbles, his mouth still running on auto-pilot, his brain clumsy, his mouth too heavy. His heart gives a somersault in his chest.

“You know what I mean.” Mallory’s glare is withering.

“You’ve given much thought into this, haven’t you?” Q says numbly.

A rueful grimace twists across Mallory’s mouth as he places the now-empty tumbler on the table. “Plenty of time to think while you were with Medical.”

Absently, Q feels the beginnings of a smile toy at the corner of his lips. “I feel obliged to point out that all this feels rather familiar.”

Mallory’s eyebrows shoot up. “Does it?”

“Yes.” Q takes a final sip of his tea, and sets his mug down with a calm he does not feel. His stomach gives a flutter, rather as though he’s just eaten a butterfly, a whole bloody flight of them, as he rounds the table to step between the spread of Mallory’s thighs. “Gareth,” he says, fingers already fumbling with the buttons of Mallory’s shirt as he leans forward, until all he can see are Mallory’s eyes, blue and confused and amused and warm and _his_ , “here’s where I tell you to shut up.

It’s different, this time. Mallory undresses him slowly, kisses every part of Q’s skins as each part is revealed, hot mouth laying a burning trail down the length of Q’s body. He leaves the centre of Q’s thighs for the last, pays special attention instead to Q’s nipples, laving and biting at them until Q is a writhing, sobbing mess. Q moans when Mallory finally slicks him up, patient and careful, pushes his arse against Mallory’s hand and shamelessly begs for harder, for faster, for more, and his vision almost whites out from pleasure when Mallory finally pushes in and obliges him.

“Stay,” Mallory whispers later, when they lie together, tangled and spent, and Q does.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Talk about thoroughly self-indulgent fic-writing, ahahaha. Picture, if you will, a hypothetical sequel where they're both thoroughly domestic (or at least, as domestic as the head of MI6 and MI6's Quartermaster can get) when they're not busy with MI6-related shenanigans.
> 
> [This](http://www.farfetch.com/uk/shopping/men/item10917521.aspx) is the tie M gives Q for his birthday. 
> 
> [Here](http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/ina-garten/coq-au-vin-recipe4.html) is a recipe for _coq au vin_.
> 
> And finally, [Chiltern Firehouse](http://www.timeout.com/london/restaurants/chiltern-firehouse) does indeed serve very, very delicious crab doughnuts. The frozen apple panna cotta with herb granita dessert is quite delightful, too.
> 
> \---
> 
> tumblr: [erushi](http://erushi.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Do feel free to drop by and say hi. :)


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